The Way You See Me

I recently had my picture taken at work. It's an official business-type portrait that I can use for social media or to include with announcements. As soon as I loaded it into my profile on Facebook, everyone commented about how much they liked it. "Like" seemed liked to strong of a word, if you ask me.

There was something about the photo that just didn't seem right. My hair seemed stringier, my teeth crookeder, my cheeks chubbier. And this AFTER I recently lost weight.

I kept analyzing, trying to figure out what it was about this picture that just didn't look like me. I was more dressed up than usual; that was part of it. And I did have on my new glasses, which I love.

Then it hit me. The part in my hair is on the wrong side.

But I did my hair that day just like I do every day. How could my part be on the wrong side? Had the photographer flipped the picture?

One Little Change

I should have done it months ago - buy one of those round-the-body harnesses for Tilly. But each time I would walk her and it would be pure torture, I thought, she just needs more practice, more training.

I have long since stopped walking her with a regular neck collar. She pulled so hard that she was constantly gasping and choking and gagging herself. It was unseemly.

A few months ago, I opted for the Gentle Leader, which fits around her nose and the back of her head and supposedly mimics a mother dog snapping at the snout or biting at the nape of the neck for correction.

Tilly just found it a nuisance.

Whenever we would walk with the Gentle Leader, I had to keep Tilly on a very short leash, and with each bit of naughty pulling, I would do a quick, upward yank. Momma Dog biting and snapping.

Only instead, she would pull harder then I would pull then the gentle leader would smoosh her eyes and make her head snap back and I would feel terrible and still end up with a sore arm.

It wasn't pretty.

But a week or so ago, I walked my friend Kelly's smart little mixed breed with one of the round-the-body harnesses. Granted, Sophia is a good 30 pounds lighter than Tilly, but I actually enjoyed walking her. With just minor pulling and no snapping, we both made a happy walk around the block.

So, a few days ago, I bought a harness for Tilly. Saturday morning, I wove her legs through the various loops, adjusting the straps for her 60-odd pounds. She scratched at it for a while in the house, but by the time we arrived at the park, she was doing her usual wimper of excitement.

For 30 minutes, we both strolled briskly around the park. She pulled a little, but mostly enjoyed  having the length of the leash to explore and sniff around. After one big lap around the park, I was almost ready for another. But not yet. Not in the heat, and not until we both get a little more in shape.

Who knew the difference just one little change would mean?

Having It All: A Single Perspective

To come to a discussion about "having it all" as a single woman seems like I've already failed.

Surely when women say they want it "all," they mean an education, a fulfilling career, an exciting marriage, and creative or athletic children (or both). With no husband or children to speak of, do I even have a voice in the conversation about having it all?

This is not a new conversation, but it got new wind in its sails by Anne-Marie Slaughter's July/August cover story in The Atlantic, "Why Women Still Can't Have It All." Her two-year stint as the first woman director of policy planning at the State Department in the Obama administration ended when she went home to spend more time with her family, particularly her teenage son.

The Occasional Painter

Seeing the tubes and bottles of paint brought a smile to my face.

I was packing a bag to take to a friend’s house for the day, and among the things I was bringing were the paints, a jar filled with brushes of all sizes, and a couple of fresh white canvases. Sarah, an artist far more accomplished than I, had invited me to paint with her in her studio for the day. I had been anticipating the date for weeks.

A few years back, Sarah and I had taken watercolor lessons together from an artist in our church. Every week we learned techniques and developed preferences for moving pigment around canvas with water and brushes. When our teacher Peggy had told me I had talent, I believed her. “You need to paint every day,” she told me, when I asked her how I could get better. I was determined to do it.

But from the beginning, it was a habit that never developed. I was working every day, writing every day, reading every day, and a host of other every day activities. Painting didn’t fit somehow. And when I painted, even if I did it every week, I didn’t really improve.

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Today I am writing over at TweetSpeak Poetry. I'd love for you to join me there by clicking on the link above.

Photo by Marcela Paolantonio, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.

When It's Wrong, It's Wrong

In the first few months of my first real job, I floated around the newsroom on a cloud. I was a cub reporter, getting regular bylines on page one of my hometown’s daily newspaper. I remember telling a new friend in the advertising department, “I can’t believe I get paid to do this.” 

Those early days of beat reporting meant walking down to the county sheriff’s office each morning just a few blocks from our office and scouring the nightly log for speeding tickets and drunk driving arrests. I took calls from mortuaries and typed up obituaries in the late mornings, and just before deadline, I wrote stories from the notes I had taken at the county commissioners meeting the evening before.

In the afternoons I did ride-alongs with deputies or interviewed children about their 4-H projects. I wrote follow-up stories about lectures at the local college, or went out on a boat with the local Department of Natural Resources ranger.

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My friend and fellow High Calling editor, David Rupert, hosting a bunch of us over at his place this summer to talk about our first jobs. This is my contribution, and I'd be honored if you'd head over and finish the story. Say "hi" to David while you're at it!

Photo by NS Newsflash, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.

Hold the Chicken

I have chia seeds soaking in almond milk in the refrigerator.

Earlier in the week I tried adding the raw, dry seeds to a smoothie that I quickly slurped down. I had questions about whether they should be eaten whole or ground up. Rather than Google the answer, tonight I posted the question in a private Facebook group of four friends. We all are trying to eat healthy – two of us follow a vegan diet – and within minutes, a friend hooked me up with a recipe for making the nutritious seeds more palatable and beneficial.

Actually, she showed me how to make them into pudding. Who doesn’t like nutritious pudding?

I’m asking my food questions to a lot of different people these days. For the first 41 years of my life, if I had a question about cooking, my mom was my first choice. She knows how long to bake a chicken or the proper ratio of flour, butter, and milk for turning a roux into gravy. Any question about substitutions – who keeps buttermilk on hand? – or about proportions – how many cups in a quart if I want to cut the recipe in half? – were always answered in a phone call to mom.

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Today I am writing over at Curator Magazine. Follow the link above to read the rest of my essay there.

Help Wanted: Paying Others to Do My Work

When I arrived home from work, I saw the garage door open, the floor swept out, my boxes and tools and coolers all in new positions throughout the garage. My nephew, Zach, had driven down from his home two states away to stay with me for a few days and help me with some odd jobs around the house to earn some money for school. He had just completed his freshman year of college and had $12 to his name. While I was at the office writing articles for my company's website, he was here, cleaning my garage.

"Wow, it looks great!" I told him, impressed that the layer of dust that had accumulated on the storage shelves over the past couple of years had been washed away, and the piles of dirt and salt that had dripped from my tires last winter had been swept out into the gravel driveway. "You've made a lot of progress."

Cleaning the garage was only part of the work he had done that first day. He also removed the sheets of plastic that covered the wooden window frames in my old, drafty house and had washed all of the glass panes beneath them. Inside and out. And the new toilet seats I had picked up at a nearby home improvement store had been successfully installed. He was quickly checking off items on the to-do list I had made for him.

"I rearranged some things in the garage," he told me, as I looked around at his work.

"I see that," I said, trying hard to resist the urge to put things back the way they were. I was new at this "employer" role, and I wanted him to feel good about the work he had done. He had done good work.

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Today I am writing over at The High Calling. Follow the link above to finish the story. I'd love to hear your thoughts on paying other people to do work that you could easily do. What do you think?

Photo by Ishrona, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.